


The Taming of the Queen

by Sigil_of_House_Throckmorton



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6018610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigil_of_House_Throckmorton/pseuds/Sigil_of_House_Throckmorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery Tyrell has been thrice wedded, never bedded, and is once again forced by her family to offer herself up for the game of thrones. After the trauma of being held captive by the faith, she has no desire to be queen once again, and resolves to be the most troublesome and boorish lady possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The setting and characters of the series _A Song of Ice and Fire_ belong to George R. R. Martin. I make no profit from this work, and will remove it should I be contacted by GRRM or any of his legal representatives.
> 
> A/N: This story was inspired by a few other fan works. Most particularly, the setting was heavily influenced by _[Roles and Raptures](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4655907/chapters/10620864)_ by [Gohans_Onna2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gohans_Onna2/pseuds/Gohans_Onna2), who also happened to beta read this work.
> 
> For clarity, the entire story will be told form Margaery's point-of-view.

“No,” she said. “Absolutely not. No! How could you even suggest such a thing?”

“I promised you that you would be our queen one day, my dearest girl. You were born for it. It is only right,” her father replied, his jowls quivering in annoyance.

“But I have been queen! Thrice a queen, and never once happy for it. The girl who dreamed of a crown is gone, father. She died in King’s Landing. I would rather marry a hedge knight than another king!”

“Listen to yourself, Margaery!” her father said. “Cersei Lannister is dead and gone, you have nothing more to fear from her. And house Tyrell needs you at court. The king is surrounded by our former enemies, and you are our last chance at getting favor under his reign.”

He paused for a bit, dirt brown eyes looking her over as though she were a disappointingly small cut of meat. “And besides, we have nearly emptied what remained in our coffers getting your name cleared in the eyes of the faith. It was no small thing to make you again officially Margaery Tyrell.”

Margaery flushed at the implication. _I was unmarriageable as Margaery Baratheon. Now that I am Margaery Tyrell once more, he demands that I find a suitor worth the expense_.

The Faith of the Seven had grown bold during the brief reign of King Aegon I Blackfyre. After the reinstitution of the Faith Militant by Cersei Lannister, they began to offer indulgences to the nobility, likely to maintain the expense of arming and barding so many knights. The price of stripping a dead husband’s name was extravagant, and in his wisdom the High Septon had concluded that as she had married three Baratheons, it would take three times the normal amount to restore her maiden name.

To even get to the negotiation table with the snide man, reparations had to be paid for the ‘brutal liberties’ taken by Randyll Tarly during her original ransom. If she had known her family would have to even more pay coin to the spurious holy man, she would have made more effort to stop Lord Tarly from punching the skinny septon who had groped her arse on the way out of the gaols. At the time though, she could hardly oppose the decision.

And now, one hundred and forty two thousand gold dragons later, she was once again Margaery Tyrell. Margaery the widow. Margaery the thrice wedded but never bedded. Margaery the old maid. Margaery the adulteress, the cuckold, the slut. Margaery the queen who was not meant to be, something that her father could not seem to comprehend.

“And now you want me to be Margaery Targaryen! Is there no end to it? When do I just get to be _me_?” she asked. A tear slipped down her face, a crack in her usually confident façade. There were others threatening to cascade across her cheeks, but she held them in as best she could.

“When you are queen of the Seven Kingdoms once again, and have born your king a son,” he said. “I will hear no more of this. You will be leaving tomorrow morning. Be ready at dawn.”

He waddled out of her receiving room, unchanged from her girlhood so long ago. Green and gold drapery accented the white marble floors in the brightly lit room, and it all felt so empty now. These were the rooms of a princess, a future queen, and she was a disgrace.

Willas was the first to visit.

At the age of eight and twenty yet still a bachelor, his chances for a good marriage continued to dwindle. Yet father, in his curious wisdom, put forth only the minimal effort in securing a match for his heir. All of his resources had been devoted to her, despite her three disastrous matches.

“I tried to stop him, sister. Truly,” Willas said, holding her close as she sobbed. His strong hand running through her still short hair and across her back soothed her as few other things could. He had comforted her this way since she was a little girl, acting more a parent than her father ever had.

“The only one he would ever listen to was grandmother. I have never had his ear, not since the accident, and he remains the rightful lord.”

“Surely there must be something you could do?” she pleaded, hoping for salvation from her dear oldest brother.

“He has tied my hands, Margaery. Truly. I am so sorry.”

He continued to console her for a time, but eventually left citing some duty with his horses. Margaery was polite enough not to challenge his excuse. She did not particularly want to be around herself at the moment either.

Garlan was the next to stop by her room to wish her farewell.

“If the timing were any better, it would take a dozen men to prevent me from going with you,” he told her, talking quietly as though she would break into a thousand pieces if she startled.

“Dear brother, I would not want to keep you from your wife so close to the birth,” she said. She was surprised at how sincere the words felt in her mouth. “Lady Leonette looks ready to pop any day now.”

“Watch your tongue, sister, or the Faith might again threaten to remove it,” he teased back. She could not help the small smile she shared with him then. “In all seriousness, Margaery, I have met both the King and his Hand. I have fought with them in an impossible battle, and they are both good men… despite what some others may say.”

Then he left, like everyone else who claimed to care about her.

Loras did not come by her rooms. He never would again.

Lady Alerie came by in the evening, after Margaery had dined alone in her quarters. She could not stand the looks she got sitting even at the great table of Highgarden. Disgust, anger. Pity. Her mother clearly felt the latter.

As the gracefully aging woman helped her out of her dress, she explained what Margaery had long suspected. Her cousins would not be accompanying her to the capital again. She could not blame them for their hesitance, Elinor being too smart to make such a journey again, Alla too terrified, and Megga too pregnant with a Mullendore bastard.

Margaery caught site of herself in the mirrored glass of her vanity. Would that Megga could share some of her fat. Confinement within the Great Sept of Baelor had left Margaery thin as a stick. Her breasts had deflated first, and while her ribs were no longer visible she feared that her chest would never again be as shapely. Her brown hair was still only just below her ears, stretching as far down as her shoulder if she tugged at it. The septa who had shorn her seemed to take sick pleasure in the action. Even her face had suffered, now harboring bags under her eyes and creases between her brows. She looked a woman now, her youth having been bled away by septons and stags.

Grandmother would have known what to say to restore her confidence. Olenna Tyrell had always been sharp and strict, but kind and loving as well to those she treasured. The platitudes her mother provided instead were of no comfort.

“I shall see you again in the morning before you are off, my dear,” Lady Alerie said. “I have found a new lady’s maid to attend to you in the capital. She comes recommended from Lady Tarly. I hope you shall get along.”

Margaery did her best to ignore her. Women were meant to rule their husbands, according to grandmother, and Alerie obviously had no control over hers. Her advice and opinions mattered as much as nipples on a breastplate.

Sleep took her after much protest, but it was not restful. It did not help that she was awoken far earlier than usual by a crash.

“Others take it!” a nasal voice swore in the pre-dawn light.

Resigning herself to her fate, Margaery rolled over and looked through the bed curtains to inspect her new lady’s maid. The girl seemed to be about her own age, perhaps slightly younger. She was pretty, in a plain sort of way, with straight darkish hair tied back in a braid and wide eyes. The slim girl was flustered, bemoaning the chamber pot she had knocked over while walking through the room. She flung a bundle of fabric onto a nearby chair as she knelt down to right the – thankfully empty – item in question.

“I hope those are not my traveling clothes you have thrown into a pile,” Margaery said from her bed as she pulled the curtain back.

The poor girl jumped upright with a small yelp, her eyes growing huge in her startle. “M’lady! I didn’t mean no disturbance! They are, er, that is –” she got out before Margaery waved her quiet.

“Hush. Gather them up and lay them across the vanity before they wrinkle,” she told the small girl.

The frightened thing panicked before obeying her orders. Margaery sighed, reflecting on how much her station had changed, even now amongst her family, despite all that was expected of her. Ever since her girlhood, she had been looked after by ladies in waiting, her cousins or the daughters of the lords of the Reach. A lady of her station was expected to have noble-born attendants, but here she was – forced to entice a king with only the help of a second-hand maid.

The girl was calmed somewhat by her work, but still fumbled through her duties, clearly unfamiliar with the exact processes of preparing a lady for her morning. She would shoot nervous glances at Margaery, who remained waiting in bed.

Used to being asleep while these things were arranged, she found herself bored, and decided to be charitable by attempting conversation.

“I am Lady Margaery Tyrell,” she said without preamble. The girl stopped to glance at her, fingers fidgeting against a bottle of fragrant oil that would later be applied about the creases of her body. She was silent, clearly fearing another rebuke.

“I am sure we will come to know each other very well over the next few moons, so you might as well tell me your name,” Margaery said, trying her best to hide the annoyance at the girl’s constant floundering.

“Gilly, m’lady. Like the gillyflower…” she said, dropping into an awkward curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquittal, m’lady, and I hope to serve you well.”

“Acquaintance.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Margaery sighed. “No, wait, yes, it is something. If you wish to stay in my good graces, you must speak correctly. It is a pleasure to make my _acquaintance_ is what you meant to say. An acquittal is to find someone innocent of wrongdoing.”

Gilly’s cheeks bloomed a pleasant pink, much like her namesake. “I didn’t mean no disrespect, m’lady! I’m sure no one thinks you have anything to do with no crimes!”

“You really have no idea who I am, do you?” Margaery mused. “Tell me Gilly, how do you find yourself in my service?”

“Umm… Well, I’ve been with Lady Talla for a bit, and she was ever so kind, but Lady Tarly … that is, I – she heard that you would be in need of a maid for a trip to King’s Landing, and I have to – er,” she paused, twitching her eyebrows together. “Anyway, Lady Tarly was able to give me a reference, and here I am.”

Margaery tried to keep her face impassive during her new maid’s nonsensical sputtering, but she must have still appeared profoundly unimpressed.

“You were a girl’s maid then, not a true lady’s maid?” Margaery challenged as she began to realize what must have happened at Horn Hill. Some ladies had soft hearts and could not bear to discharge maids from their service without proper cause, but when a difficult situation arose and they were unable to continue working in one household they still had to be sent somewhere else. Rather than forcing these women into the brothels, a lady might write a reference for such a maid to another lady needing new service… Of course, Margaery would have to analyze all future references from the Tarly household with a high degree of suspicion.

“Lady Talla is a true lady!” Gilly shouted back, appearing quite indignant. Her intensity waivered briefly as she realized the impropriety of her outburst, but she seemed to think better of it and redoubled her stance. “She was kind and noble, and no one should say she’s not.”

After a moment’s consideration, Margaery smiled. “I think I might like you after all, Gilly,” she said. “Come now, help me into a new shift. Father wants me out of his castle just after dawn.”

“… Yes, m’lady.”

They began the process of preparing her for a day on the road. There was no bath, since she would likely be filthy after only a few hours of travel regardless. Margaery found she had a hard time caring how she looked at all, truly. She had not nearly enough hair to worry about a stylish arrangement, or even enough to tie behind her head. The traveling dress she chose was practical rather than flattering, for again there was very little to flatter.

Despite the relatively simple activities, Gilly still managed to find difficulty in her tasks. It did not bode well that this girl would be solely responsible for dressing and styling her during her courtship of the king.

“How long did you serve Lady Talla, Gilly?” Margaery asked.

“For about two years, m’lady. I started there just before the first snows came down here,” she replied.

“And before then? What other houses have you served?” Margaery continued.

“Well, that is… There were no others. Before them I was living with my sisters, but…” she dropped off, looking haunted in her recollection.

“No, you do not need to finish,” Margaery said with a dismissive wave. War had taken its toll everywhere in Westeros, and not even the Reach was spared. “I too know what it is like to lose a sibling.”

She still thought of Loras every day. His appointment to the Kingsguard had been negotiated by grandmother as a condition the Lannister-Tyrell alliance she had brokered with Lord Baelish. It was an obvious ploy to have a member of the Kingsguard who would always guard the Queen above all else, and it likely would have been necessary had Joffrey not died at her second wedding. Insurance, grandmother had called it. And after the death of Renly, it had given Loras purpose in life once more.

A life that he then threw away. Margaery had begged him not to lead the siege of Dragonstone, trying everything in her power to keep him nearby and safe. He had refused though, wanting more than anything to have his revenge against Stannis. She was in tears when he left, and she had been quite unkind to him in their last moments together. She hoped Loras knew that she did not mean what she said, any of it…

Of her three brothers, Margaery had always been closest to Loras. They were the closest in age, and for most of her childhood they looked similar enough to confuse their minders if they switched clothes. As they grew older, she learned that they shared similar interests as well. Willas may be one of the few people who could beat her at Cyvasse, and Garlan was always so humble and brilliant in his own way, and she loved them both dearly. But in the end, it was Loras who had been her best friend hand and her stalwart shield more than any other.

After he left, her Redwyne cousins had done their best to protect her in his stead, but noble guests do not have the authority a Kingsguard would when dealing with armed men from the Faith, and they could not stop her arrest.

 _Loras would never have allowed it. He would have killed any guard or watchman or Poor Fellow or Warrior’s Son who dared touch me_ …

The thoughts occupied her for the rest of the morning, and all through the stilted farewells with her family. She had managed to spare her father another icy glare, but could not remember what was said or done by anyone else.

She was only distracted from her reminiscience when she noticed what an odd party it was departing Highgarden. It consisted of fifty armed men and squires, two women, and a small child.

The guardsmen were commanded by Ser Willam Wythers. The man was older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a scowl permanently etched on his lined face. He had been the captain of her personal guard in King’s Landing, where he had proven to be profoundly ineffective at doing any actual guarding. Ever a pious man, he had stepped aside at the behest of a Warrior’s Son after they had stormed her chambers. She trusted him to protect her as much as she trusted her father to lead an army.

The women, of course, included only herself and Gilly.

The child Margaery had no knowledge of until she climbed inside the wheelhouse.

“Hullo!” shouted a small boy, no more than three years old. He had sandy blonde hair and lively brown eyes. “Who’re you?” he asked, surprisingly understandable for such a young thing.

“Aemon, you musn’t be rude to the Lady!” said Gilly, who had climbed in behind her. “You must be very polite to Lady Margaery, on your best behavior.”

“Yes mama, okay,” he replied. Gilly sat next to him on the bench he had claimed and held him close. She looked a strange mixture of guilty, embarrassed, and hopeful.

The wheelhouse creaked and groaned as they got underway, and would have been terribly bumpy along the cobblestone road leading out of Highgarden had it not been for the cushions. Once Margaery had settled herself between two of the choicer ones, she raised a questioning eyebrow at her maid.

“And who is little Aemon, here?” she asked.

“He’s – he’s my son, m’lady,” Gilly said. “I hope it’s alright that he comes along. I’m the only one he has…”

“Of course,” said Margaery. The surprise of his presence was already wearing off, and she already thought well of him for his now quiet observation. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to his father?”

“His father… well, that is…” she trailed off.

“I take it you weren’t married?” Margaery ventured.

“No,” Gilly said quickly. “No, no. I suppose he is a bastard, m’lady, though please don’t think less of him for it. His father was – is – Samwell Tarly.”

That was one of the last names Margaery would have ever guessed as the father of the little bastard boy. She remembered Samwell from a feast in her girlhood. The Tarly boy had been small but portly, a page to her uncle Paxter and a playmate of her cousins. Playmate was likely not the best word, for while Horas and Hobber seemed to enjoy their time together, Samwell decidedly did not. He had been squat and fat and cowardly, and last she heard had joined the Night’s Watch after the birth of his younger brother, much to his father’s delight.

Improbable distances and personalities aside, something else about the claim seemed off. She recalled that Samwell Tarly had hair even darker than her own, greasy and straight. Gilly’s own was very fine and mousy brown. Aemon Flowers looked positively Lannister by comparison.

_That is the real secret, then. Gilly brings a bastard before Lady Melessa Tarly claiming that it is by her son living half a world away. She feels sorry for the girl and takes her in, but as the child grow she realizes that the child looks nothing like her or Samwell. She’s a poor maid besides, and so she winds up in service to Margaery the widow._

She decided to spare Gilly the embarrassment of revealing the lie in front of her boy. Even if she knew it to be false, Aemon probably did not, and there was no harm in letting the charade continue now. It was unlikely they would ever return to Horn Hill again, regardless of Margaery’s fate.

Instead, she settled by a window and arranged herself for the many days to come. Gilly was sweet, but they had very little in common and she was a poor conversationalist besides – always stuttering and pausing at odd times. Sometimes Margaery would play games with Aemon, who learned them more quickly than she expected. More often than not, however, they sat or slept or snacked to pass the time.

Quite a bit had changed since her first journey along the Roseroad to King’s Landing. Piles of snow lined the road, the remnants of road-clearing efforts throughout the terrible winter. The pace was certainly quicker, without the constant stops for feasts and tourneys. The evenings, however, were just as lonely.

The nights they were able to sleep at castles and holdfasts were the most upsetting. The first time she had passed through Cider Hall, or Longtable, or Bitterbridge, the lords and ladies had given up their own chambers for use by their king and queen. Randyll Tarly had bullied them into providing her similar treatment when he returned her to Highgarden, but clearly their goodwill for her had since run out. More than one housemaid mumbled disparaging remarks while passing by, and Lord Caswell went as far as to slide his hand up her thigh at dinner. A coughing fit was the only way she could extricate herself from that without drawing the wrong sort of attention.

It was a relief when they finally arrived at King’s Landing, just over three weeks after they had departed Highgarden. Despite her station, Gilly was not overly impressed by the size of the city.

“I’ve been to Oldtown, m’lady, and it was just as big. The tower was higher too.” She did gag though as they approached the city gates, and Margaery failed miserably to hide her smirk.

They were greeted in the courtyard of the Red Keep not by the King, but his Hand.

Tyrion Lannister stood tall on the steps of the castle’s hall as a groom helped Margaery out of the wheelhouse. His patchwork black and blonde hair, mismatched eyes, and horribly disfigured face all remained the same as she had last seen him at his trial.

“Lord Lannister,” she greeted him, although she did not curtsey. “You seem in much better spirits than last I saw you.”

“I am much less drunk than last you saw me, I’m sure,” he replied. “I see you have changed your hair.”

“The trend was first set by your sister, I believe,” she retorted without losing a beat.

“May she burn forever in the Seven Hells,” he nodded back. “Now, where is the rest of your party?”

“I am all there is, fortunately,” she said.

He made a show of reviewing her party once again with his oddly shaped eyes before nodding.

“Very well. A page will show you to your rooms. I am afraid that they will not be the same ones you enjoyed the last time you were here. And there has been some redecorating done, which I am sure you will notice. Consider yourself welcome to King’s Landing and the Red Keep in the name of King Jon Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As should be now apparent, the pairing in this story will be Margaery / Jon. I will include this information in the tags with the next update, when Jon is more fleshed out as a character.
> 
> This story is a bit out of my comfort zone as a writer, but I hope to do it justice. There will be smut eventually, but it will not be the focus of the story. The (eventual) pairing here is rare enough, though, that I don't think it would be right _not_ to write a good smut scene between the two of them.
> 
> Chapter updates will be sporadic at best, likely months apart. All I can say is that it will get done eventually, probably.
> 
> If you have any compliments or critiques, please leave them in a review.


	2. Chapter 2

_Things certainly have changed_ , Margaery noted as she was led by a page into one of the many guest wings within the Red Keep. The fine gold and red drapery had been stripped from the ochre stonework leaving the hallways dull and empty, if not more sunny than they had been before. The keep had been sacked twice and seen three new monarchs since she was here last, and much of the finery had likely been ruined, but surely the king would have been able to replace such things if he were concerned about appearances.

The chamber she was lead to was really only that – a bed chamber, without even a separate solar or garderobe.

“Is this truly the largest room you have available for a lady of my station?” she asked the page, probably sounding too indignant to be truly polite.

“The Red Keep is hosting many others, my lady. The Princess of Dorne demanded a whole wing to herself,” he said.

 _I will not be here long enough for it to matter, I suppose_. Her father’s last grab for power was ridiculous, and she would do everything in her power to sabotage it. It would be surprising if she stayed in King’s Landing more than a moon’s turn, if things went well.

“What other noble guests should I expect to meet?” she asked him.

“Well, my lady, it’s hard for me to recall, what with there being so many of them…”

Margaery turned to look at the cheeky boy. He was old enough to squire, if he had the opportunity, and appeared to be just beginning to grow out of his boyish fatness. He had a round face with a wide smile, glancing only once to his fingers which discreetly rubbed together at his hip…

“That is a shame. I had a silver stag put aside in my coin purse for anyone who could tell me what to expect,” she said, affecting a disappointed tone and pulling said coin out of the purse concealed by her traveling dress.

“With all due respect, my lady, a gold dragon is the going rate.”

The amusement drained out of Margaery in an instant. Still, there was nothing for it. Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind – _information is the true currency of the powerful_.

“A dragon for everything you can tell me today, and a stag for updates each day hereafter,” she said shortly.

“My best offer yet!” the page cheered. “I’ll even tell the others lies for you, for another stag a piece,” he said, waggling his bushy eyebrows.

“It is improper for a page to suggest such things,” she chastised. “But I will consider it. Let me know if anyone else approaches you with a better offer, and I will beat it. Now, who is it that has become my informant?”

“I’m Dryn, my lady. I’m one of the king’s pages. He has me seeing to the needs of all of his _admirers_.”

“Excellent,” Margaery replied. Her little spy would have access to all of the information she was likely to need, although she would have to hire at least one more to keep him honest. “I do seem to have some free time as the servants bring in my things. So, who are my competitors?”

The burly boy coughed into one hand as the other flexed in front of his chest.

“Fine,” she said with a roll of her eyes as she dug a gold coin out of her purse and shoved it into his grubby hands. “Go on, then.”

“Mighty fine of you, my lady!” Dryn exclaimed as he bit down on the coin. Satisfied with the indentations, he pocketed it before launching into his report.

Margaery sat quietly in a cushioned chair, assimilating what she could, cataloguing away the names for later review. She would need to know their family holdings, titles, what sides their families fought for and against during the war… Hopefully the library of the Red Keep had survived the sacks, although between the late Queen Cersei’s obsession with wildfire and the dragons of the late Queen Daenerys, it was far from a sure thing.

Eventually, it came down to two important figures with a few minor curiosities.

Princess Arianne of Dorne, she knew, or at least she knew of her. The ruler of Dorne had been betrothed to the late King Aegon Blackfyre, and apparently still saw herself as the rightful queen. Her cousin Tyene remained on the small council as the master of whisperers despite the recent regime change, which was likely a diplomatic if dangerous move by the new king.

As opposite as could be was Princess Shireen Baratheon, Lady of Storm’s End in her own right and Lady of Dragonstone by her right as the king’s heir presumptive. If she believed her exuberant informant, the scarred girl was quite taken with her third cousin ever since he saved her from a fire-witch during the war. Where the Martell candidate was lauded by all to be a great beauty, Princess Shireen was decried as some pitiable deformed child with thin hips besides. Her worst luck was being born from a Florent mother. Margaery had never met an attractive Florent.

The others ladies were from smaller holdings. Lady Myranda Royce’s family was only recently granted a true lordship in the Vale, having been stewards for many years much like the Tyrells before the conquest. She has been entertaining quite a few men besides the king, if the stories are true… The name of Lady Erena Westerling stood out in a final list of names she asked Dryn to recite, although she could not recall at the moment why that name should be important.

“And where do they stand? Has His Grace shown any lady his favor?” she asked. After all, even if she steadfastly refused to participate in the game of courtship, she had to act the part.

“I don’t snitch on the king. All the gold in the south couldn’t get me to do that, m’lady,” the lad replied, looking scandalized. “You’ll just have to see that for yourself.”

By this time, the last of Margaery’s belongings were being brought into her single chamber. She dismissed her informant and called for Gilly to begin the process of making her presentable for the formal introductions in court that afternoon.

Gilly arrived in good spirits and arranged for some other girls to draw hot water for her bath. They chatted about their various accommodations, Margaery disappointed in her single chamber and Gilly quite content at the servant’s quarters.

“There’s even a nurse to look after Aemon while I work,” she explained. “I’ll need to bathe him tonight in case he meets – well, to get the road dust off of him.”

“How wonderful,” Margaery stated. “Now, the king should still be holding court for another two hours yet, and I must present myself well. I’ll need the blue dress, and the silver band…” She continued to walk Gilly through the process of preparing a lady for a day among society.

“You look beautiful, m’lady!” Gilly exclaimed when she finished her work. Margaery proceeded to get up from the vanity and smooth down the front of her dress as she walked toward the door. “With you dressed so fine, I feel a bit nervous going in only this,” the maid continued, gesturing her hands across the skirts of her livery.

Margaery looked back at her maid, concerned. “But Gilly, you will not be presented to the king. Why would you think servants would come to court? If you were a highborn lady in waiting, perhaps, but a simple maid…” she trailed off, not wanting to crush the girl’s spirit.  “No, it would be better for me to show up with no companion at all than to bring you with me.”

Rather than demure after making such an obvious blunder, Gilly flushed hot and looked on the edge of tears. “B-but, Lady Margaery… Please, m’lady, I must meet the king! I’ve come all this way… It’s _very_ important!”

“Come now, Gilly, the king is a very busy man. He only need meet with me because of the status of my house. I’m sure he is quite disgusted with me as a person based on what he will have been told,” Margaery explained, as gently as she could, while trying to sort out her confusion. “It is simply not something that is done, and I have no power to help you here. I am sorry.”

The normally mousy girl bit down on her tongue to keep her rebuttal in place. She ducked her head, failing to obscure the tears beading down her face and falling to the rushes in fat drops. “…Of course, m’lady. I’m sorry to’ve troubled you.” With that, she dismissed herself.

Her escort arrived to retrieve her, but as Ser Willam lead her through the halls of the Red Keep, Margaery could not help but be distracted by her maid’s peculiar behavior. Even as she approached the oak and bronze doors of the Great Hall, she could not think of a single reason that a crofter’s daughter would have the expectation, much less the need, of an audience with the king.

Her musings were cut short by the man who stepped away from the door to greet her. He was tall and fit, with dark hair, a wolfish face, and a beard that was more stubble than hair. He wore fine clothes, although she could hear the mail clinking underneath his grey silk doublet. On his appearance alone she might have mistaken him for the king, but the sigil on his chest was a flaming green chain rather than a dragon or even a direwolf, and he was perhaps a decade older than her. She and the Black Bastard would be of an age, so she deduced that this could not be him.

“Lady Tyrell! I worried that you wouldn’t make it. Wouldn’t want to be late meeting the king, now would you?” the man asked in a rough accent, not at all pleasing to the ear despite his fine clothes.

“I am afraid we haven’t been introduced, Ser…”

“Bronn, of the Blackwater, _Lord_ of Stokeworth if it please you. My Lord Hand wanted to be sure you were announced properly upon your arrival,” the man crowed.

Recognition flashed through Margaery. “I _do_ remember you now, Lord . You were Tyrion Lannister’s man a few years ago as well.” The Bronn to the Imp’s brain, her handmaidens had joked. Tyrion rarely made public appearances without this warrior standing a half-step behind him when Joffrey had come into his crown. If she recalled correctly from her grandmother’s whisperers, he likely had more brains than he let on as well. How else would a commoner have risen so high? “How fares your lady wife?” she asked, mostly to cover up her previous blunder of failing to recognize such an important member of the new court.

“Dead of the grey plague, sadly,” he said with a smile. “But we have no time for chit-chat, you’re about to miss the good bit.”

Lord Blackwater pushed the doors open and quietly escorted her through the gallery. The cavernous red room brought back memories from her last time here, and although the grotesque architecture and red stone remained, the Lannister and Baratheon gold banners no longer adorned each window. Instead, jet black dragon skulls hung above the arches, increasingly monstrous in size towards head of the room and yet still all dwarfed by the last of them. Red flames glowed within the eye sockets of Balerion the Black Dread, a reminder to all who visited that dragons lived once again.

Below the immense fossil loomed the Iron Throne, sword blades sticking out at odd angles, mimicking the teeth of the beast above them. Margaery found it ironic that the seat of power that her father so craved for his potential grandchild was itself a monument to the deaths of thousands of their countrymen on the Field of Fire… but then again, it was that battle that allowed the Tyrells to climb so high in the first place.

And then, on that gruesome throne of swords, sat the king. Jon Targaryen, the first of his name, sat attentive to the audience below him. His brown hair hung loose and wavy down to his shoulders, a shade lighter than her own earth brown curls. He wore a simple black doublet with very little adornment, with the obvious exception of the symbol of his power, a three headed dragon in red, large over the center. His black breeches and boots would have looked at place in a training yard or on a road, but seemed entirely too practical for a ruler hosting an audience. And far from the jovial King Robert or the sadistic King Joffrey, King Jon only looked stern and serious.

His face was bearded thick and short, accented by long thin scars surrounding his right eye. His eyes were grey and cold, and looked out of place against his Targaryen wardrobe. Despite his harsh mien and his coarse appearance, it was clear even from this distance that he was quite handsome. It did not hurt that every lady at court knew of his feats at the Wall, his defiance of the Others in the face of inevitable defeat, and his indomitable will that ensnared and subjugated all three of the dragons that had rampaged after the death of their mother.

Despite the myriad succession of rulers to have sat on the throne of the Seven Kingdoms since she began playing the game, Jon Targaryen alone among them conferred a sense of permanence. While he did not look complacent, neither did he appear undeserving. This was a man who did not seek power, but who knew how to wield it nonetheless. If anything, the collection of people surrounding him appeared more out of place than he did.

To his right on a cushioned chair sat a dark haired, voluptuous Dornish woman. Although they had never met, it was easy to distinguish her as the Martell princess. Her gown was translucent and extravagant, meant to entice any and all into her thrall. It was so captivating that Margaery almost did not notice the homely girl sitting next to her.

On the armrest of the very same chair, on the side closer to the king, rested a girl who could only have been Shireen Baratheon, Princess of Dragonstone. Her ruined face and unfortunate ears did not help her appearance, nor did placing herself so close to the Martell beauty. Margaery admired her gall, however, noticing that by this awkward placement she was in fact the closest one to the king.

The group at the head of the room was rounded out by a gruff man in intricately carved bronze armor, an even gruffer man who looked to be an old pit fighter except for the robe and heavy Maester’s chains around his neck, two Kingsguard in all white armor at the back corners of the room, and a colossal white direwolf who lay at the king’s feet. All in all, this was in line with what she had been told to expect.

She was extricated from her musings by a commotion that was making its way through the observers, which finally dissolved into a stark silence. After a few moments of the brusque Lord Blackwater jockeying to gain her a better position, she finally caught a glimpse what was happening.

A man in roughspun had been forced to his knees at the bottom step of the dais, and his neck was forcibly extended across a thick wooden block. He faced the gathered audience, and looked more sad than distressed or angry. It would have been surprising, to see a man so at ease with his own imminent demise, had Margaery not recognized the man on sight. Qyburn, the false Maester that Cersei Lannister had installed as her Master of Whisperers.

She remembered each one of the men the Lannister bitch had sent to him, all of the men she had supposedly disgraced herself with, who had ultimately gone mad or died at Qybrun’s hands. Her guards Ser Baynard and Ser Hugh had not survived his grotesque experiments. What was left of their bodies was in no condition to return to their families. And that pretty bard with the blue hair… Only Ser Mark Mullendore came out of it all with both his life and his wits, if only because there was not much of either to lose in the first place.

A smooth voice interrupted her reflections, although she could not say when it had started speaking.

“…and so after much deliberation between myself, Grand Maester Marwyn, and Lord Royce in his capacity as the Master of Laws, you have been found guilty of murder of the most fell and heinous quality. By my word, you are sentenced to death. By my hand, you are to die here and now. Have you any last words?”

The king spoke in a clear voice, conveying strength and finality across the hall. His tone gave the crowd the assurance that every alternative had been considered, that fairness and impartiality were inherent to its speaker. It was a lord’s voice, or rather, a king’s. _It is no wonder Garlan likes him so much_.

“There is so much left to learn…” the monster on the block responded. “I only wanted to learn.”

A blade of rippled black steel passed quickly through the man’s neck, before he could tense or scream. The head fell to the stone of the dais with a thick thud, only rolling slightly as it was coated by the blood pulsing out of the body’s severed neck.

Men in black and red livery scurried up the steps and removed the offensive display, efficiently covering the arterial flow with a thick cloth to prevent any more mess while another mopped the coagulating spill. Margaery could not tell if the blood was truly removed or if it had only soaked further into the red stone of the floor, but by the time the king had passed off his sword to a squire and resumed his seat upon the Iron Throne, she could not see any sign that an execution had taken place only a moment before.

The nonchalance was overwhelming in its own way, the king himself being so complacent with executing a man who was undoubtedly one of the worst human beings Margaery had ever met, but also the crowd of courtiers and petitioners not batting an eye. This was clearly just another part of the normal sequence of events in the new Targaryen court. Live executions, carried out with little fanfare but still in public for all to see, and by the king himself.

“Are there any other petitions to be heard?” the king asked from his iron seat. Margaery did her best to keep her face neutral as the gaunt man next to her shouted in the affirmative. The crowd parted before her escort as he led her away from the gallery along the side of the hall toward the lane in the middle, kept clear for just such occasions.

The faces she passed on her way forward to be recognized were indistinguishable as individuals, but their composition was clearly different than her last admittance into the Red Keep. The men and women still dressed finely, although the ornamentation was more simple and rationed. Skin tone and hair color were more varied, the pale and dull features of Northerners mixed with the dark and exotic attributes of the Dornish, with every combination in between. Thick, well fed Vale lords, haggard Riverlanders, even the occasional blonde citizen of the Westerlands.

She advanced through them all, doing her best not to flush at the comments leaking from the crowd.

“The whore-queen of Highgarden…”

“… her hair…”

“… and then he fucked her cousin too, even had a bastard…”

“… and Ser Osney Kettleblack, and Moon Boy, for all I know.”

 _The legacy of House Tyrell, in shambles due to the machinations of a mad-woman and the fervor of zealots_. The rumors Cersei spread appeared to have persisted well past her death. Margaery was surprised that it was the comments about her hair that hurt the most. Gilly had done a fine job with what little of it there was. There was no reason for the mob to bring her servant into this.

Soon enough, she arrived at the area of the room meant for petitions. Her gold embroidered green velvet gown was more colorful than any other in the room save for that of the Princess of Dorne. Now that she was visible, the murmurings only grew louder.

Lord Blackwater spoke over them all, eyes on the king. “I present Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, coming to court as a representative of her family.”

Margaery slipped on her mask, violently suppressing her rage as gasps and cries rose above the din. One exclamation in particular soared across the hall, drowning the others out. “But that’s the Baratheon whore!”

The yelling was smothered by that final declaration, the root cause of the outrage directed toward her person finally and fully expressed. She had been tied to Renly, then to Joffrey, and finally to Tommen. Without her marriages, the Lannister control over the capital and the ensuing madness and carnage across the continent might have been avoided.

But Margaery could not apologize for her role in those things. She had done what was best for her family, what was best for the realm. Peace is the only salvation for the smallfolk, so casually butchered by the squabbles among the nobility. Only stability brought peace, and it mattered not that the basis of such stability was legitimate, only that it was solid and insurmountable. Her marriages were for the good of the realm as much as anything, and these selfish lords and ladies didn’t know the game well enough to see that.

Margaery had been a good queen, acting just where Cersei was cruel and generous where Cersei was selfish. Smart enough to hold the realm together, if she had ever had the time to establish herself. Grandmother had said that the Seven Kingdoms had not seen a better queen since Alysanne.

And so, her mind made up, she introduced herself to the king. She locked her eyes with his icy gaze and stated, “Margaery _Tyrell_ , pleased to make the acquaintance of Your Grace.” She stood tall, and she waited.

This was her first and easiest plan to be rid of her responsibilities. While she was meant to entice the king and generally promote the prominence of her house, her father’s failure to send credible witnesses of her behavior gave her quite a bit of leeway in interpreting those instructions. And how better to promote House Tyrell than to remind everyone how high they had once climbed? And if the king should find her petulance improper and demand she be sent away from court, who could blame her for complying? She was only doing has her lord father asked.

Heart beats swelled against the wall of her chest as time dripped away.

“Even _ladies_ must pay their respects to the king,” sneered a dark haired beauty near the front of the audience. “Kneel.”

Margaery turned and appraised the girl. They looked to be of an age, although her foe was undoubtedly lovelier. She was young, buxom, and had a comely face like the edge of a knife. Her eyes were starlight, and Margaery could feel them piercing through her gown and stripping her bare for all to see.

But Margaery had been stripped and beaten and humiliated before, and this girl could do nothing to hurt her that had not been done worse already.

“I said kneel. Kneel before His Grace!” the bitch ordered.

 _And who is she to demand my respect?_ Margaery wondered. _Kneel when it is asked of you, and expect to be pulled up by a friendly hand. However, do not kneel when it is demanded of you, else expect to be trampled in return._

“I do respect His Grace, and I will ever be at his service, but I will not kneel,” she declared, glad that she sounded infinitely more confident than she felt. “I will not have it forgotten that I was once a queen in this very keep, enthroned in this very hall, and expected to kneel to no others ever again.”

The shapely maiden advanced on her, two men-at-arms close behind. “Such disrespect for our savior will not be–”

“Enough, Lady Jayne.”

The wench stopped her advance, and all eyes turned to the Iron Throne.

“Your word is enough for me, my lady,” he continued, his cold eyes locking with her own. “I accept your fealty, and that of the rest of House Tyrell. Many others, some of them my most loyal lords, have pledged their oaths to me without bending the knee.” Amusement laced his voice as he so casually set aside her lack of respect as a principled decision rather than a power play in the deadly game of thrones and kings.

Margaery could only gape in response. What she had said was almost treasonous, even she knew it. It was a dangerous and calculated risk, and it was backfiring splendidly.

Her accuser demurred to the king, although Margaery could tell she still simmered beneath the surface. The cloaks of her guards fanned out behind her as she retreated into the crowd, red stallions on gold and brown.

“How long will you be with us, my lady?” the king asked, gently enough that Margaery felt pitied rather than respected.

She answered in that round-about way her grandmother had taught her so long ago, using words that sounded as important as anything but truly meant nothing at all. The smirk faded from the king’s face and his lips set into their more natural pout.

“So be it. The Hand tells me rooms have already been set aside for you,” the king replied, his voice once again as dispassionate as when he passed his sentence and swung his sword. “All are welcome in King’s Landing to pursue their own interests, or those of their house, and you are no exception. Regardless of who fought for which crown, we are all people, and we will all be treated equally.”

The king stood up, and his beast with him.

“Petitions will be heard again after the mid-day meal tomorrow,” he stated simply, before walking off the dais and out of the hall.

Margaery felt a bit dumbfounded at the lack of ceremony. The crowd broke apart behind her, people from all levels of society and nobility from across the realm dispersing into the many nooks of the Red Keep. She was content to stand in place, swaying like a reed on the bank of a stream.

After a decent portion of the mob had cleared the room, she turned her head to find an unfamiliar woman at her side. She was finely dressed in a light blue gown with bronze adornments, and had curly brown hair that was very nearly like what Margaery’s own once was. They were separated by at least a head in height, giving Margaery a generous view of her chest, which certainly did not need such a perspective to be considered impressive.

The short woman leaned closer to Margaery and whispered into her ear, like a secret, “Don’t think much of what that girl said, Jayne Bracken has no true friends here at court. Most think she is a conniving bitch!”

Margaery was still attuned enviously to the strange woman’s breasts, but such a bold statement in a public place snapped her attention back to the woman herself. “I apologize, but you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Myranda Royce,” she said with a smile. “Not _that_ Royce, the other one, from the Gates of the Moon. I’m only a distant cousin to our esteemed Master of Laws, but my father still acts in his stead as high steward of the Vale, much as he did for Jon Arryn before the war. And King Jon saw fit to uphold our new noble title and lands, so I suppose I’m finally a true lady as well.”

That tale had spread around the realm like wildfire.

After being reunited with his lost sister, King Jon became outraged by her manipulation at the hands of the _de facto_ Lord of the Vale, Petyr Baelish. The man retreated into the lofts of the Eyrie, pulling what soldiers would follow him away from the battle in the North, which only angered the new king further. After the specter of winter fell, he detoured part of his army through the Bloody Gate to bring Baelish to justice. He had been met with resistance at the Gates of the Moon, the first line of defense of the Eyrie at the base of the Giant’s Lance, but he managed to placate Lord Nestor Royce by confirming the hereditary lordship Baelish had granted him.

His army met more staunch resistance on the ascent, confirming the Eyrie’s reputation as insurmountable by hoof or foot. Rather than initiate a siege that would take years to complete in order to execute a single man, he sent a message to the castle stating that any who were still locked within by nightfall would be executed with Lord Baelish as conspirators.

And that night, in the hour of the Wolf, a dragon flew into the Eyrie for the first time in over one-hundred years. The dragons had remained in the far north after the war, mourning their slain mother. Prior to that night, everyone had assumed that they would remain there indefinitely. But Viserion, the white wyrm, alighted on the castle tower in the moonlight, casting a shadow over the entire Vale of Arryn, before tearing into the steep roof and diving inside.

King Jon, both Lords Royce, and a few other men made the climb to the castle without opposition the next morning, to find the once great building a ruin. Finery that was not burnt was in tatters, eviscerated by claws and errant swords. Charred and exsanguinated corpses littered the rooms, and signs of failed barricades and other struggle were omnipresent. The remains of Petyr Baelish were found under a ruined bed in the lord’s chambers, or rather, the top half of them. His body from the pelvis down was missing, presumably consumed by Viserion in its conquest.

The dragon itself was found in the High Hall, wrapped around the weirwood Arryn throne which had been spared in the destruction. King Jon had laid his hands upon the beast, who responded by bowing its head to him.

Or, so swore Lord Nestor, Bronze Yohn, the former slave known as Grey Worm, Ser Barristan Selmy, Tyrion Lannister, and her own brother Garlan. The dragons never returned to King’s Landing with him, making it hard to say what really happened. According to the witnesses, Viserion laired in the husk of the great Arryn castle, which was left to ruin with no clear descendant of the once great house to inherit it, and a dragon infestation besides. Traders in Old Town reported a giant black beast flying over the water from the Bay of Crabs to Tarth, and there were sightings of the green dragon across the Riverlands. The while thing seemed incredible, but with so many notable individuals attesting to the king’s dominion over the beasts, and Petyr Baelish’s definitive demise, the tale was widely accepted. Enough so that it became the basis of the new king’s right to rule and proof of his Targaryen lineage.

Myranda Royce’s family had clearly been among the most benefited by Jon Targaryen’s reign.

“The pleasure is mine then, Lady Myranda,” Margaery replied. “I appreciate your support, truly, but I expected no friends here in King’s Landing. I fear Lady Jeyne’s opinions were more popular than you imply.”

“Not among those that matter,” the woman replied with a collegiate smirk. “And please, you must call me Randa. Even if you did not expect it, I have decided that I am to be your friend here, and I will not have our friendship bound by titles.”

Margaery was surprised by her forthrightness, but did not let it faze her. She had no idea how many layers deep Lady Myranda was playing in the game, making every turn of the phrase a potential double-edged sword. “And why would you wish to be my friend? Are you not ashamed to be near a widow?”

“And why would I be, as a widow myself? I had hoped to find common cause with you, two women forced by circumstances to be widowed in their primes, seeking a decent marriage at the capital…” the plump girl trailed off, lost in thought. “My father sent me here to court the King, but he is so distant, and there are so many other available men. I have not decided on a new husband yet, but I have been investigating quite aggressively, I assure you.” She finished with a completely unsubtle waggle of her eyebrows.

An airy chuckle filled the space between them, and Margaery was surprised to realize it was her own. She could not recall the last time she had truly laughed. Consequences and conspiracies in the game be damned, she was enthralled by the refreshing frankness of Lady Royce. And their circumstances were too close to be overlooked, certainly presenting them with similar strategic dilemmas.

“You know, Randa, I do think I could use a friend here. We must find some time to get to know one another. Would you care to break your fast in my solar tomorrow?”

“That would be lovely. I look forward to getting to know you, Marge.”

“As I look forward to seeing you, although I will be compelled to have you forcibly removed from my presence if you ever call me ‘Marge’ again,” she said in a low tone before breaking into a mostly genuine smile. “Just Margaery, if you please.”

“Very well, ‘just Margaery’. I will see you on the morrow,” she said, before folding into the rapidly dissipating crowd.

She searched the room and advanced back to the grand entrance, finding Lord Blackwater once again.

“That was certainly different, my lady,” he said with his rough voice. “I haven’t seen someone try insulting him before. Seven hells, he almost seemed to be enjoying himself for a moment.”

“I was only doing what my lord father sent me to do,” she demurred. There was no way she would admit to anything slightly suspicious to him, even veiled in teasing. His position so close to the Imp made him too dangerous. And she had already decided to foolishly trust one stranger today, there was no room for another. “Now, would you be a gentleman and escort me back to my chambers? I am sure Ser Wythers would appreciate seeing me sequestered safely away once again.”

“Hmph. Be boring then, see if I care,” he mumbled, before leading her out a door underneath another black skull.

The walk back to her meager chambers passed by in a blur. The king’s reaction was confusing and contradictory at best, and Margaery realized on reflection how terrible her plan truly was.

_The childish games of a dumb little girl…_

Whereas before she was merely scorned primarily for her scandalous marital history, now she had confirmed herself as brazen and disrespectful. While she certainly could not care less about her father’s political machinations for her family, the reaction of Jayne Bracken made it clear that even with a respectable ruler, King’s Landing was still a dangerous place to live. Particularly for highborn ladies without good social standing, regardless of the assurances made by Randa Royce. No matter how reluctant she was to do it, she would need to have at least a few of her father’s men accompany her on her excursions through the Red Keep.

“Here you are, m’lady. And it looks like your good guard captain is anxiously awaiting your arrival,” Bronn drawled at her.

“Thank you for your service, my lord. I can get to him from here.”

The Hand’s man walked away after a gruff farewell, making him easily unmissed.

“Your belongings are unpacked and sorted, Lady Tyrell,” Wythers said. “The rest of the men have been quartered in the barracks, and your lady’s maid and her boy have been placed in the servant’s rooms.”

“Very well, Ser Willam. Is there anything else of which I should be aware? I plan to retire early, if possible,” she replied, eager to settle into a feather bed and think, or mayhaps dream.

“Yes, my lady. You should know that I have taken the liberty to arrange for you a walk in the castle gardens tomorrow with the king, to formally start the courting process.”

“Excuse me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: When I said "updates will be sporadic at best, likely months apart.", I really meant it, huh?
> 
> Since I started this story, there have been a few more Jon / Margaery stories released which have been fantastic. In particular, I'd recommend [My Last Bath](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7967590) by [Iridescent Lugia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IridescentLugia/pseuds/IridescentLugia) if you're interested in some good smut. It will be quite a while before I get to it in this story, after all.
> 
> There were a couple things here that took me a while to fit together, so apologies if the transitions are rough. Lots of help from my beta reader here, so props to [Gohans_Onna2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gohans_Onna2/pseuds/Gohans_Onna2) for helping out. There are some things in the content that don't exactly make sense, but should be explained later on.
> 
> As always, please leave any comments or critiques in reviews!


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